The Hollow Men
by Procrastinations
Summary: Christmas Eve, 1981. Because for the survivors, life went on. Sirius, Remus, Peter and Snape. Oneshot.


**Disclaimer:** Obviously I own nothing. I'm merely playing in JK's sandpit. The title and the italicized parts are from T. S. Eliot's poem _The Hollow Men_. Angst ensues, but enjoy!

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_(this is the way the world ends)_

**Sirius**

He deserves this.

He deserves every minute of the Dementors, the biting cold, the shrieks from Bella's cell just metres away. She was brought in about a month ago, maybe less, and her cries about Voldemort aren't so much irritating as heartbreaking now. He supposes it's a side-effect of the Dementors; he can't bring himself to feel anything but a deep-rooted grief nowadays. In a way he's glad that memories cause him so much pain, because this way he won't forget the way Prongs' laugh originated in his belly, or how Lily found some of his cruder jokes hilarious, or how Harry preferred to call him Pafoo and how his godson's face would light up whenever he saw him –

It was a full moon two nights ago, which means it is Christmas Eve. Somewhere, from within the bowels of the prison, Sirius thinks he hears a bell toll midnight. Glancing up at the stars, he whispers, "Merry Christmas, Prongs."

_(this is the way the world ends)_

**Remus**

He's lost friends before, so it shouldn't hurt this much. He had found the McKinnons, every last one of them, trapped inside their house with their wands snapped and identical expressions of agonised horror on their faces. He had had to prise Paige, eight months old, from the wreckage of where the nursery had been burnt, and had been forced to bury Louise, eleven years old the day before, so excited to get her Hogwarts letter and so looking forward to getting a wand of her own. That had been painful for months, certainly, but never, not even when he saw that the fire had finally died from Marlene's eyes (a seemingly impossible feat, but Voldemort was certainly powerful) had it rendered him so utterly helpless as this has.

Emmeline and Mary keep popping over on the pretence of sadness, and while they've lost their best friend too Remus knows all too well it's to check he hasn't killed himself. He's the last Marauder, the last man standing – he's got three dead best friends and a traitor who's rotting in Azkaban to boot, and he can't help but wish that he were dead instead of James or Lily or Peter. He finds penance at the bottom of a bottle because it's that or feel the pain, and he's smart enough to choose oblivion every time. He catches himself wanting to wish that Sirius were dead, but he can't quite bring that on someone who used to be a brother to him. Instead, he chooses Firewhiskey over the outstretched arms of friends and drowns his sorrows for another night.

Raising his bottle in a toast, he recites the Marauders' Christmas saying, ignoring the physical pain the memories attached bring. It was one that Sirius and James created back in their fifth year: "Merry Christmas, fellow makers of mischief, and may another year find you in tomfoolery and merriment." He tosses the alcohol down his throat, revelling in the familiar burn, and allows the sob that's been building in his throat to choke out.

_(this is the way the world ends)_

**Peter**

He's sorry, he's sorry, he's sorry sorry sorry –

The words blend together in his mind, a continual loop of regret. He misses the times when it was just Moony-Wormtail-Padfoot-and-Prongs, the times when he only had to worry about passing his Potions OWL and whether or not Mary MacDonald liked him. He loathes the fact that they all had to grow up much too soon, and that he had to choose between light and darkness, the protection of his friends or the safety of his family. His mother was a Muggle and his father had been a half-blood, and if he'd sat idly by his mother would have been killed instantly, gone the same way his father had when he insulted Mulciber's father. He was protecting her. He was trying to save her. Besides, this way he could feed information to Dumbledore, feed He-Who false leads and keep him away from his friends –

Obviously, that plan didn't work out. He'd learned fairly quickly that you don't lie to the Dark Lord, and there was something awe-inspiring about the sheer power that emanated from him. He'd gotten in too deep, and then his mother had been killed anyway, and now he's a family pet, and –

"Merry Christmas, Scabbers," Percy Weasley murmurs, and Peter learns the true value of self-loathing.

_(not with a bang but a whimper.)_

**Severus**

He's failed.

Merlin, Circe and Agrippa, he'd given himself _one_ task after losing her the first time! He'd promised to protect her to the best of his (evidently pathetic) abilities, and he's failed! He can't feel the hurt anymore; he's just a hollow man, incapable of emotion. His words to Dumbledore had been quiet and meaningless, and he hates himself now more than he thought possible. It's the moments when he realises he's never going to see Lily fight again, never going to see her firing hex after curse after spell, never going to see her laugh until she cries or the way her lips quirk up whenever she's trying not to laugh – it's those moments when he misses her more acutely than ever.

He'd _told_ her that Potter would be her downfall. He'd warned her against that so-called charm, his easy swagger and his infuriating grin. What's worse is that she never knew how Potter had felt until he let it slip in fourth year, and three years later she was by his side in the Great Hall like she'd always belonged there. When he thinks about it, that's a lie – the worst part isn't that she was unaware of Potter's feelings, but of his own. If he hadn't chosen his path, if he'd stayed by her side… maybe they could have been something. Maybe she could have loved him back. Maybe she'd still be alive.

It's these thoughts that hurt the most, the thoughts and the regret, and he's not sure which one's more potent.

"I love you, Lily. I'm so absolutely sorry. Merry Christmas."

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**A/N: Please review! They are love.**


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